Majestic

by Whitley Strieber

  He reacted instinctively, rushing the three men. He grabbed the first one he saw and hurled him full force against the wall. There was a splat. His head bobbing, the thing crawled away. Blue-green goo dribbled down the wall behind him.

  The other two held their hands out to him with the wrists limp, like they expected/him to kiss their long, pale fingers. The hell, he was gonna beat the shit out of these guys. He took a swing at the nearest one. It was a good punch, on the money—but he found himself whirling around, swinging through the air.

  "Man," he yelled, staggering, "you got too much morphine in this soldier!"

  What in hell was he doing, taking swings at nightmares. He dropped onto the bed. Had he gone crazy? Was this a goddamn padded cell?

  Then he noticed the smear on the wall. He went over, felt it. Real. Sniffed it. Smelled strongly of sulfur and some kind of plant. Garlic? Celery? No way to be sure.

  Either he had knocked hell out of a real mushroom man or this was about the shittiest salad dressing ever mixed on this airfield.

  He was staring at the mess, thinking about tasting it to see if it was salad dressing when something bumped gently against the top of his head. When he looked up he found himself staring directly into the ceiling. He looked down. He was standing on nothing. He'd floated up to the top of the room.

  "Oh, fuck."

  On its own his body rotated to a lying position. Then the door opened with a faint pop and he went shooting down another blue tunnel. He yelled but couldn't move a muscle.

  He was aware when he stopped moving, he knew that he wasn't in any infirmary on earth; he wasn't a stupid man. He'd figured out where he was. A hell of a thing.

  Realizing all this, he stopped being belligerent and became careful. He wasn't about to make these people even more angry. His mind raced with excuses for why he had already practically killed one of them with his bare hands, and maybe more when he'd fired into their ship.

  They looked awful. He just hadn't expected to see them. He was really a very gentle guy, all he'd done -

  "Is shoot at us and then injure one of my soldiers."

  She was standing across the room, a perfectly normal-looking woman of about thirty. She had soft features, auburn hair and a small mole on her right cheek. Her dress was blue plaid. She reminded him very much of that strict Miss Bonny who was his fifth grade teacher. Miss Bonny had a big willow switch she kept behind her desk.

  She came slowly closer, sort of drifting across the room. It looked weird and he got scared. He backed away.

  As far as he knew Miss Bonny was still teaching school. So what in God's name was she doing here?

  "Why do you call on your god? I'm the only one here." He hadn't talked. Did that mean she could listen to his thoughts?

  The closer she got the more he backed up. All of a sudden something grabbed him hard from behind. Miss Bonny hissed, her eyes glaring with evil triumph.

  He twisted, screamed, tried to run. But his legs wouldn't work. When he attempted to hit her his arms remained at his sides.

  "Can you not see me as I am?" she asked. He frowned. That wasn't Miss Bonny's voice.

  His whole life seemed to fall away from him. It was nothing, an annoying weight.

  But he wasn't finished. He still had to wash his car and spend the evening with Bobby and send his momma that letter -

  "We will find work for you, child."

  Then he saw her truly, flood and fire and war and flower, a baby struggling from the womb and a crone heaving in death, a woman at morning, splashing water on her face and she so young that his heart hurt, and a gate forever opening to secret light.

  "You poor child. Your life is interrupted before the time of its completion."

  He saw lovers he would never touch, moonlit nights he would never wander, lessons unlearned, a man who would never know real love, all because he had died.

  Then he saw his father standing before a grave with his hat in his hand and he was so little and simple, was Dad, and all his hard work was buried there.

  "Why would they bury his work?"

  "You are remembered there."

  "I'm here. I'm okay!"

  "You are not in good fortune. You have died."

  "Lady, I'm just as alive as I ever was! Look, my hands, my skin!" He looked down and saw his own torn flesh.

  "You cannot live like that. I must move your soul, little one."

  When the woman put her hands on him the illusion that she was human faded away. "It's an alien," he thought, "she's one of them."

  Her laughter tinkled. "There are no aliens, child." There was gentle derision in her tone.

  He was dead! Hot tears poured from his eyes.

  She began to look more deeply into him. In the middle reaches there was a yearning, unacknowledged element of the female. He felt her mind probing into his own and he recoiled. She was stronger than he was, though, and she drew him inexorably into his earliest memories, seeking the core of his fears. And she did not forget that his innermost self was female.

  Suddenly he was back home in Billings. He was on the potty. He didn't like this, there were things in the water and she was making him sit on them! They were going to come up and get him. "Momma, them is spidos in here! Spidos, they gettin' me!"

  She came at him, her voice buzzing, her fingers darting.

  "Nonono! Stay right there." He felt the overwhelming power of her hands holding him against the spider hole.

  His howls of terror echoed in the quiet house. Then he was on the floor. An elderly nurse was bending over him. To see her broke his heart, there was in her face such love, such caring, such total decency.

  She picked him up. He lay in her arms. How could a fragile woman like this pick up a full-grown male? Then she turned him over and said in the softest, kindest voice he had ever heard, "Behold the flesh that was thine."

  A savagely injured young man lay on the floor. From the way he was dressed he appeared to be aircrew.

  Lucky wanted to touch his young face, so innocent!

  "That was thee."

  "That?"

  "Yes, child."

  In an instant he understood. She had rescued him—his soul, his essence—from his own dying body! He was overwhelmed with such gratitude that he could barely contain himself.

  "Never fear, child, for you are with us now. No more harm shall come your way."

  She took him through the great ship. The first room he came to contained rows and rows of what looked like little incubators, and each one contained a tiny baby. There was a hush here, as if in a church.

  "They are the children of man," the old nurse said. They all turned as he entered, watching from their strange incubators with huge, black eyes. He'd never seen babies that looked like that, or babies that were so aware of you. "We are growing a new humankind, dear child." She drew him through a door and into a place where there were tall, strong bodies hanging in tubes of pale pink liquid. "This one will fit thee very nicely."

  He felt himself drawn as if magnetically toward one of the tubes. The body seemed almost alive. He looked into its eyes. There was a roaring sound and then the fluid was draining from around him. He ached as if he'd been asleep for a thousand years.

  When the fluid had gone down he took a choked, rattling breath. The air smelled strongly of human blood, an odor he knew from when his carrier had gotten hit by a kamikaze in August of 1944. There had been beautiful young sailors torn to pieces all over the deck.

  There were forms outside. Then the tube was opened and three children stood before him. They were wearing silver coveralls. They smiled in unison. He could see that they were grown versions of the babies in the incubators.

  Behind them stood a tall, blond man. He was more than six feet. "Hi there," he said.

  "What's going on?" When Lucky heard how high his own voice sounded he cleared his throat.

  "My name is Charles Burleson."

  "I'm John Luckman, lieutenant, USAAF." What made his voice sound like that?"
<
br />   "I was in the Fifty-third Infantry. Grunt infantry."

  "I was flying a fuckin' night fighter when—" As Lucky was speaking he glanced down at himself.

  His voice died.

  He was looking at rich breasts and long, smooth legs. When he breathed the breasts heaved; when he shook his leg, the woman's leg shook.

  "Hey!"

  "Calm down, you're okay."

  "What the hell is going on here!"

  Three voices came into his head, speaking in breathless unison. "It's the one that fitted you best."

  "I'm a goddamn frail!"

  "You and Charles Burleson can be mates."

  "No!"

  "They're artificial bodies," Burleson said. "They take your soul and move it."

  "Get me the hell out of here! This is crazy! Nuts!"

  Her voice came into his head. It wasn't a vague whisper as it had been before. In this new body she spoke as loudly as if she had been at his side. "In time you will find much happiness this way, child."

  "I'm not a woman!"

  "I think they're kind of new at this," Burleson said.

  "I've got a major problem here!"

  "Maybe we can convince them to move you later."

  "Jesus, I can't feature this! I just can't feature it!"

  "You have to begin orientation. We've only got a short time before our mission."

  "Could you tell me what is going on?" Burleson laughed. "Be patient, John. First things first." "Well, who are all these kids around here, and what the hell's the matter with their eyes?"

  "They're human kids, sort of altered. She's raising them. They're really incredible people. You'll like them."

  Burleson suddenly stiffened. A sad expression crossed his face and his voice changed subtly, as if he was being used to speak the words, rather than speaking them himself. "I'm going to ask you to close your eyes.

  When you open them you'll be standing in front of a mirror." Lucky closed his eyes. "Now open them, child."

  Before him in the oval mirror that had stood above his dresser at home was a face unlike any face he had ever seen. He blinked and it did, too.

  It was as if a shadowy woman from deep within him had somehow floated to the surface. He felt charity toward her, and a curious sort of love. "I think my jaw is kind of heavy for a woman."

  "Is it?"

  "But I have nice eyes. Really nice eyes."

  "It is well that you like them."

  The mirror disappeared. Burleson sighed, relaxed. "She comes into your mind and takes you over sometimes. I don't think they actually have bodies of their own, not the ones in control."

  Lucky wondered if he would get lipstick and stuff, but didn't dare to ask. A guy wasn't supposed to like that stuff.

  "Sure!" came three eager voices in his head. "We can get all that!"

  The three children came tumbling into the room in a state of great excitement. They were dragging clothes, shoes, they had a makeup case, all sorts of things.

  A few minutes later he was wearing a flowered dress and comfortable if somewhat clunky shoes. He was extremely embarrassed by the clothes, but he was also a resourceful person and he was fighting to get used to it, to make this craziness work.

  "Good," said the voices, "that's very good!"

  "Dance?" asked Burleson.

  "Yes," she replied. "I will dance with you." Slowly, without music, the two creatures moved about the room, their shoulders occasionally brushing the huge tubes where other bodies like theirs waited.

  "I didn't know I had a soul."

  "We all have them, and these people can do all sorts of stuff with them. Incredible stuff. You'll see wonderful things, man."

  "I was a man."

  "You were a male body. She says that inside you really wanted to be a woman. You've become your own truth."

  "Were you a woman they made into a man?"

  "I told you, fella, I was grunt infantry. A bad ass. And they gave me a lot harder time when I came with them."

  "In what way?-"

  "Let's just say I had to pay a debt. But that's over now and this sure as hell has the U.S. Army beat."

  Lucky laid her head against the grunt's shoulder. Somebody turned on a radio, and they danced to

  "Something to Remember You By."

  "Let me lead, asshole."

  "Okay, give me a break."

  It was going to be possible to dance with Charles Burleson.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Will stared at a laconic report from Eighth Air Force Command. Seven pilots had set out. Five had returned.

  One had lost his engine and spun his plane into the ground. Another had attacked the disk and disappeared, plane and all.

  He dropped the report on his desk. At this point he felt that he could not go on. They had broken him.

  In those days they understood nothing of the motives of the others. According to Will it is now theorized that they will try to take certain souls to their absolute limits, to literally shatter them so that they can become free of all the ingrained ideas that had imprisoned them.

  It is a testament to Will's strength that he did not go mad or, as happened in a number of other cases, commit suicide. Instead he took action on his own behalf.

  Maybe he didn't choose the perfect response. But it was the best he could manage: he ran.

  Will and his father had shared many peaceful hours on the trout streams of upstate New York.

  Herbert Stone had passed his membership in the Trout Valley Club on to his son. Will realized that he could get on a train and be at the club by midmorning. It was nearly ten. The late express would leave for New York in half an hour. He put his papers in his safe and locked it. On his desk he left a terse note that he'd gone fishing. No phone number, no address.

  He intended to tell Hilly his plans personally. He picked up the phone and dialed the admiral's home number.

  Two rings and Hilly answered.

  Will put down the telephone. He told himself he'd call when he arrived at the club. He packed a bag full of cotton shirts and canvas fishing duds. Most of his gear was at the club, so he didn't need to worry about carrying an eight-foot fly rod on the train. I looked at pictures of Will in those days. There are only three, all taken of other people. His appearance is always incidental.

  He was an excellent dresser. His suits were tailor-made and he had a Panama hat. He must have looked the image of a well-heeled businessman as he left his apartment building for Union Station.

  The Pennsylvania Railroad's "Night Flyer" had a drawing room available through to Poughkeepsie. He engaged it and made a long-distance call to the garage in Poughkeepsie where he and his dad used to rent cars.

  Since his father's death in 1945 Will had not been able to visit the club. So this journey was not simply an escape from intolerable pressure, it was also an attempt to come to terms with deep grief, and perhaps even to reconnect with the only love Wilfred Stone had ever known.

  Sitting back in the cab, he remembers feeling as if life itself had suddenly returned to him. He enjoyed the geniality of the cab driver, of that old, self-confident America.

  Our America is a ship in a dark ocean.

  "Have a good day?" the cabby asked.

  "Good enough."

  "Y'know, I just don't remember it got this hot during the war. I think all the gunfire overseas broke up the air and made it cool."

  "It's sweltering."

  "You're sure?" He gave an easy laugh. "Here we are," he said.

  When Will casually described his train trip to me my heart practically broke. What we have lost!

  He was welcomed onto the shiny black train by the sleeping-car porter, lie took his bag and showed him to his drawing room. "You'll want that suit ironed," he said looking at Will's wrinkled seersucker. "Just put it in the door when you're ready."

  He inspected the room and the lavatory, then pulled clown the bed and smoothed the blanket. "Would you like an immediate makeup, sir?"

  "I think I
'll read in the club car for a while after we get started."

  "Well, sir, there's a midnight snack in the dining car starting at eleven. Or I can bring you something in here if you prefer."

  The train pulled out at 10:29 on the dot. Will let fifteen minutes pass and then made his way to the club car at the back. He didn't expect to find anybody there but lonely commercial travelers, but there was always that pebble of hope.

  He ordered a sidecar and a pack of Luckies. LSMFT—"Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco." Also stood for

  "Lord Save Me From Truman."

  He sat with the commercial travelers watching the lights of Maryland flash past and dreaming idly of Her, the woman he hoped would soon walk in and take the chair beside him. She would be dressed in navy, with dark hose and high, high heels. On her head would be a pillbox hat and around her neck a discreet but expensive string of pearls. She would be perfectly made up right down to her spectacularly red lips and fingernails. She would order a Manhattan and lean back sipping it and smoking.

  And Will would say hello. She'd laugh, raise her eyebrows and say something like "again," and they'd be off to the conversational races.

  An impressively tall blond man came in instead, and took her chair. When the waiter came up he asked for a glass of plain water without ice. He sat erect, staring straight ahead. Like Will, he wore a seersucker suit.

  Oddly, there was a conventioneer's tag on the lapel, but no name. Will knew nothing of artificial bodies. He never imagined that a group of them were on a mission that involved him.

  "Warm evening," Will said.

  The man slowly turned his head. Will recalls a twinkle of laughter in his eyes, that and a seriousness. His eyes were violet, quite startling. Will was fascinated, and he introduced himself. "I'm Wilfred Stone," he said.

  "Going up to the City?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Actually, I'm off to do a little fishing."

  "Where?"

  "On the Beaverkill. I'm a member of the Trout Valley Club—"

  The man got up and left without a word. Of course, he had obtained the information he had come for.